straw stack, he came rushing into camp with the news of his find.  He informed the Colonel that he had discovered a lot of flour in barrels hidden beneath the straw.  The news was too good to be true, and knowing Jim’s fund of imagination, few lent ear to the story, and most of the men shook their heads credulously.  “What would a man want to put flour down in a straw stack for when no one knew of ’Lee’s coming?’” and, moreover, “if they did, they did not know at which point he would cross.”  Many were the views expressed for and against the idea of investigating further, until “Old Uncle” Joe Culbreath, a veteran of the Mexican War, and a lieutenant in Jim George’s company, said:  “Boys, war is a trying thing; it puts people to thinking, and these d——­n Yankees are the sharpest rascals in the world.  No doubt they heard of our coming, and fearing a raid on their smoke houses, they did not do like us Southern people would have done—­waited until the flour was gone before we thought of saving it—­so this old fellow, no doubt, put his flour there for safety.”  That settled it.  “Investigate” was the word, and away went a crowd.  The straw was soon torn away, and there, snugly hidden, were eight or ten barrels of flour.  The Colonel ordered an equal division among the regiment, giving Jim an extra portion for himself.

By the 13th the bridge was completed, and the waters had so far subsided that the river was fordable in places.  An hour after dark we took up the line of march, and from our camp to the river, a distance of one mile or less, beat anything in the way of marching that human nature ever experienced.  The dust that had accumulated by the armies passing over on their march to Gettysburg was now a perfect bog, while the horses and vehicles sinking in the soft earth made the road appear bottomless.  We would march two or three steps, then halt for a moment or two; then a few steps more, and again the few minutes’ wait.  The men had to keep their hands on the backs of their file leaders to tell when to move and when to halt.  The night being so dark and rainy, we could not see farther than “the noses on our faces,” while at every step we went nearly up to our knees in slash and mud.  Men would stand and sleep—­would march (if this could be called marching) and sleep.  The soldiers could not fall out of ranks for fear of being hopelessly lost, as troops of different corps and divisions would at times be mingled together.  Thus we would be for one hour moving the distance of a hundred paces, and any soldier who has ever had to undergo such marching, can well understand its laboriousness.  At daybreak we could see in the gloomy twilight our former camp, almost in hollering distance.  Just as the sun began to peep up from over the eastern hills, we came in sight of the rude pontoon bridge, lined from one end to the other with hurrying wagons and artillery—­the troops at opened ranks on either side.  If it had been fatiguing on the troops, what must it have